


Help I'm Alive

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Justice League (2017)
Genre: AU, Angst, Bruce Has Issues, Bruce is unprepared for Clark's resurrection, Clark comes back, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Post-Canon, Pre-Justice League (2017), So much angst. Like... ridiculous amounts, cursing, holy angst batman, injuries, post-death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-23 00:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15593877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: It's been a year since Clark Kent (Superman) was murdered in his fight against Lex Luthor's monster, Doomsday. Batman (Bruce Wayne) has had to do some soul-searching after almost murdering a person. He and Diana have become good friends, but haven't seriously begun searching for other meta-humans yet. Then, one night in late October, Clark wakes up... and his first instinct is to fly to the home of his almost-murderer for help. Things are about to get complicated.





	Help I'm Alive

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does.
> 
> Title from the song, "Help I'm Alive" by Metric.
> 
> Although Justice League was significanly better than I was expecting after BvS, there was still something... missing. I reimagined what happened between BvS and Justice League, and this kind of takes place right in the middle. Not really cannon, my AU.

It was a dark night, as late October nights usually were in Smallville. The moon shone dimly through the thick clouds that either meant a nasty rainstorm or a somewhat early snowstorm. All was quiet. It was a little after two in the morning. Slowly, a low, persistent scratching sound became audible in the graveyard. A figure burst from the ground, showering dirt around him. The figure staggered a few steps forward. Despite the condition of their suit, the person looked remarkably whole for someone who had been dead for a year. They stumbled forward again before falling to their knees, leaving the gaping maw surrounded by fresh grave dirt behind. 

Clark Kent lay on the cold, cold ground and gasped, almost gagging. He was so tired. Where was he— it was dark, cold, and he’d been… underground? Something… something wasn’t right, it felt like he couldn’t think, like his brain was liquid lead. Something about Batman, and Bruce Wayne, that triggered a spark. A fight. Batman. Spear. Kryptonite. Monster. Martha. “Do… you bleed?” Clark mumbled, remembering. And suddenly, the graveyard was empty again…. and sans one body. 

… 

The latch on the window was all too easy to open. The house almost screamed ‘vulnerable,’ as if it was waiting for someone to infiltrate it, made out of glass like it was. Clark slipped into the dark room, leaving behind a trail of dirt, and probably smudging the carpet too. He wasn’t thinking straight enough to notice. All he could think of were blurred moments— a woman, a monster, something about his mother. Batman. Kryptonite. Bruce Wayne. Something about Bruce Wayne was important, somehow he was connected to the thought, _Martha._ Silently, Clark stood over the sleeping figure, and with a start, realized that the thud sound was the sleeping man’s heartbeat. 

Swaying slightly, Clark stood, a vision straight from a zombie movie, covered in dirt, and recently risen from the grave, and listened to the sound of Bruce Wayne sleeping. His breathing was deep, and his heart was very slow, and even. He’d moved around somewhat, so his bare chest was exposed, and his silver-flecked hair was askew. Clark staggered forward one more step. Something… something about Bruce Wayne was important. 

… 

Bruce was asleep, exhausted after an extremely tedious night of patrol. But something was wrong. Sleepily, he felt himself being slowly pulled from unconsciousness, for some unknown reason. Perhaps it was the smell: like freshly over-turned earth, except this earth had a stagnation to it, like grave dirt. Bruce was familiar with the scent of grave dirt. One, minute squeak caused him to open his eyes. And that was when he saw him… or it. There was a person standing in the dark, looming over him. _Or,_ Bruce thought, _an it._ The person… thing was covered in dirt, was extremely rumpled, and that smell…. It was coming from them. “Jesus Christ!” Bruce exclaimed, scrambling out of bed, heart thundering. He reached for the knife under his pillow, but… the intruder wasn’t moving. 

Clark heard the exact moment Bruce Wayne woke up. He frowned in his sleep, perhaps noticing something Clark could not— like the smell; it was only vaguely present in Clark’s mind, as mostly, he felt numb. The man opened his eyes and Clark leaned forward, to better hear his heartbeat. Suddenly, the man scrambled out of bed and the calm thud, thud, thud, turned staccato— turned scared. “Jesus Christ!” Bruce Wayne exclaimed, and reached for a knife. He was scared. Of Clark. Bruce Wayne was scared of Clark. And when had he had that thought before? Oh. Batman. Bruce. Martha. Mother. Batman was Bruce. Clark’s unconscious quest for help had taken him to the man who’d nearly killed him. Clark’s eyes narrowed. 

“You!” he spat, “Won’t let me… live, won’t let… me die.” Bruce’s eyes widened, heart still going a mile a minute. 

“Clark?” he asked incredulously, dropping the knife from suddenly shaking hands. 

… 

As if the acknowledgement had somehow released Clark from the weight of a burden, he sagged weightlessly to the floor. _Probably left a dent,_ he thought distantly. A lamp flickered on somewhere above him. Then Bruce was standing over him, then he was crouching. He laid a still-shaking hand on Clark’s shoulder, not minding the encrusted dirt. His heartbeat, Clark noted, still hadn’t calmed. At all. He was afraid. Clark remembered, as if he was watching a movie, Superman standing in front of the Bat’s car, destroying it, threatening its owner. Bruce Wayne was scared of Clark Kent. Bruce Wayne was scared of Superman. Bruce Wayne was Batman. “Clark!” Bruce called, and Clark ignored the way his voice was an octave higher, and the fact that the other man seemed to be forgetting that he was only in boxers. 

Ignoring the way his muscles shook, Clark sat up, and his mouth said, “You’re afraid of me.” The hand retreated, and Batman flinched, minutely. If Clark wasn’t… Clark, he wouldn’t have noticed. The heartbeat didn’t calm either. At least he wasn’t shaking anymore. Batman stared at him, and Clark met his eyes, staring back. They stayed that way for a few minutes, as if playing a game of chicken. Bruce looked away first, taking a deep breath. 

“I…” he stuttered, standing. He let out a shaky breath, and sat on the bed. Clark weakly adjusted himself to look at Batman. “I’m going to get Alfred,” Bruce said, grabbing a robe from the back of his door. He paused in the doorway, and said, “Don’t move.” He left the room, and Clark heard a muffled, “Fuck” as Bruce strode out of his limited hearing range. Clark absently noted the way dirt, and mud, had ruined the white wool carpet. 

… 

Alfred had been asleep when he heard the tell-tale creak of his door, and felt the presence of somebody entering his bedroom. His unease abated when the sound of Bruce’s voice came out of the dark and said, “Alfred.” He sat up, turning on the bedside lamp, a bit displeased at being woken this late. But, he also acknowledged, it would be something important, for Bruce wake him, looking as he did. He looked visibly shaken, pale, and almost a little sweaty. And for Bruce Wayne, the Batman, to look this upset, something bad had happened. Alfred sat up, a pang of alarm going through him. 

“What is it?” he asked sharply. 

Bruce opened his mouth, and closed it, looking far, far, away. Alfred frowned. Now he was worried. “Just… get dressed, meet me in the master bedroom,” he said, leaving before the questioning could start. Alfred dressed in record time, trying to ignore the slight tremor running through his hands. Whatever it was that had happened, it was important. 

Alfred approached the door of Bruce’s bedroom, frowning at the smell. The scent was hard to place, even with how strong it was, but Alfred would hazard a guess that it smelled like… grave dirt. With a sudden, sinking feeling, he guessed that whatever terrible thing it was behind this door, it would change everything. 

… 

Bruce took one steadying breath before reentering his room. Clark hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor, but looked up as Bruce came into the room. There was something deeply disturbing at seeing a man covered in dirt, looking like he’d just crawled out of the grave— which he had— giving you undivided attention. Bruce swallowed, barely suppressing a shiver. His mouth was dry, and he felt cold. 

Bruce realized that Clark was still staring at him, and he opened his mouth to say something. Clark beat him to it. “What happened?” he asked. Bruce closed his eyes a moment, and was saved from answering by Alfred’s appearance. 

“My word,” the old English Butler exclaimed upon opening the door. 

“I know,” Bruce agreed grimly. 

Superman was back. 

… 

It was well into the early hours of the morning by the time they’d gotten things at least temporarily handled. After asking the most pressing questions— did anybody see Clark? What did he remember? Did he have his powers? Bruce had practically shoved Clark into the shower. Afterwards, he’d set some extra clothing and pajamas out, along with a towel, and leveled a look at Alfred. The butler had known what he’d meant, and followed him from the room down to the main living area/kitchen. Wordlessly, Bruce had grabbed two whiskey tumblers and poured them both small glasses. He sipped his for a moment, and Alfred did too. After a moment of patient silence, Bruce sighed, and shakily set his glass down. 

“That was one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen, Al. I was dead asleep, but woke up because there was this, this… smell. I heard a creaking noise, and opened my eyes. Completely dark, except… there’s Clark, standing over me; but I didn’t know it was him. I just saw a figure, covered in dirt, hovering right over me. And then… he says, ‘You! Won’t let me live, won’t let me die’ and I realized then, it’s Superman. It’s Superman, and I’m looking at a dead man,” Bruce says. He shivers, once, and throws back the rest of his drink. Alfred also takes another sip. They are quiet another moment. 

“What are we going to do, Master Bruce?” Alfred asks, kindly ignoring the way Bruce is still slightly too pale and wide-eyed. Bruce grimaces, shaken from his morbid pondering. 

“I don’t know, Al. I don’t know,” he says seriously. Alfred finished the rest of his drink, glad for the liquid warmth in his belly. Then he collects the glasses and the bottle. 

“I suggest, for now, that we both get some sleep, Master Bruce. I have a feeling that we will need it later,” he says. Bruce nods, hands clasped together, staring at the table— or rather, through it, almost lost in thought. 

“Right,” he says absently. 

… 

The next morning, Clark wakes in a stranger’s bed. He presses his face into the pillow, and inhales Bruce Wayne’s scent. His eyes widen. He’s in Batman’s bed. He’s alive. He is alive and his first instinct had been to come to his almost-murder’s home for help. And he’d helped him. Clark remembered now, slightly fuzzily, the breathless feeling. The dark. The cold. The dirt. Remembering the battle. Flying here. Seeing Bruce, and scaring him awake… Clark’s eyes widened, and now, yes, he did remember it better. He’d scared Bruce. Feeling a slight twinge of guilt, he stood out of bed and went into the bathroom to grab the other clothes that Bruce had left out for him last night. He’s stopped in his tracks by the sight of the crumpled, dirt-encrusted suit. Oh. Yeah, that… the small fact that Clark had crawled from the grave last night. 

… 

After Alfred left, Bruce turned out all the lights except for one small lamp. He’d laid down on the couch, a throw pillow under his head, and stared at the dark ceiling, thinking. But eventually, he’d fallen asleep again. Now, Bruce was turned sideways, almost falling off of his too-small couch, breathing deep. He didn’t seem to mind the sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds. Clark hesitated, shadowed by the light. He didn’t want to scare Bruce again like he had last night— he felt bad, about that. But he needed answers, and Bruce could give those to him, hopefully. And the other man, who’d appeared last night— Alfred, Clark remembered suddenly— wasn’t around. Clark made up his mind. 

… 

Somebody was shaking his shoulder. Bruce blinked groggily, sitting up sharply when he saw who it was. His heart raced at a sickening pace, and he firmly forced himself to think something other than, _the alien could not die, he was here, and Bruce was— almost literally— naked and unprepared._ He swallowed his cotton mouth, and sat up, carefully making sure his robe was still tied. Respectfully, Clark stepped back, giving him space. Bruce suppressed a grimace. Right. Last night… 

“Clark,” he acknowledged, trying not to stare at the man who was supposed to be dead, but was standing in his living room, looking at him like _he’d_ grown two heads. 

“Batman,” Clark said. Now that jolted Bruce awake. He blinked, tensing unconsciously before he forced himself to relax. 

“It’s Bruce, actually,” he said slowly, forcing his voice to remain even. Clark blinked, and suddenly looked like he was about to— Bruce caught him in an awkward half-hug as the other man’s legs buckled beneath him. Bruce propped him up on the couch. Clark gasped. Bruce closed his eyes a moment and took a calming breath. 

To distract both of them from whatever had just happened, Bruce asked, “Where’s Alfred?” 

Clark’s gaze snapped to his own, and Bruce had the sudden unnerving desire to look away from those piercing blue orbs. Thankfully, Clark looked away, concentrating. After a long moment, he returned his attention to Bruce. “He’s in the study, talking to… a Diana? Something about… Smallville,” Clark said, frowning. _It was so frustrating, not being able to hear properly._ Bruce nodded. Okay, Alfred was handling the evidence of Clark Kent’s… no-longer-deadness. Good. 

After a beat of silence, he asked, “Are you hungry?”

… 

They walked over to the other side of the room, and Clark sat somewhat heavily at the island. There was another beat of silence as Bruce stepped to the other side of the counter and contemplated the stainless-steel fridge. From how he held his shoulders, Bruce was tense, Clark observed. He sensed that they would have things to talk about. 

Finally, Bruce turned to Clark, an inscrutable expression on his face. “I hope you like eggs and toast, because that’s about all I can make,” he said. 

“Fine by me,” Clark said. Bruce gave him a look, and turned away. 

… 

The smell of butter soon permeated the small space, as did the crackle of bread being toasted, and the sizzle of eggs being fried. Soon enough, breakfast was ready. Surprisingly, Bruce had made him a cup of coffee too. Clark winced as he took a sip, for a moment forgetting that he wasn’t as invulnerable as he used to be— the liquid was actually hot. Bruce, who was standing on the other side of the counter from Clark, caught the facial expression and raised one perceptive eyebrow. 

“It’s hot. I’m not used to having to be careful when I eat,” Clark explained. Bruce finished his coffee and started on his toast, looking thoughtful. 

Finally, he fixed his gaze on Clark, and Clark remembered, abruptly, the moment he’d thought it possible that Bruce Wayne could be Batman _before_ he died. This was another such moment. “How much power are you at?” he asked. Clark swallowed, slightly nervous. Now he remembered why it might not have been such a good idea to come here. True, Batman had saved his mother… but that didn’t excuse the fact that he had tried to kill Clark before. 

Bruce seemed to sense where Clark’s thoughts were and his mouth formed a tiny frown before the expression was blotted out and Bruce’s face returned to neutral. _It was creepy,_ Clark thought, _the amount of control the other man exerted over his emotions._ Interrupting Clark’s thoughts, Bruce sighed. “Look,” he said, more quietly than usual, “maybe it’s none of my business, and it’s well within your rights to leave here and not look back. But. You are here, and there must have been a reason you came here _after digging yourself out of your own grave._ Maybe I’m not your first choice— god knows you wouldn’t be mine, if our situations were reversed— but I can probably help. I’ll at least try.” 

This was enough to get Clark to look up in surprise. Bruce’s face was open, and Clark sensed some kind of earnestness he hadn’t seen in the man before. Maybe it hadn’t been a mistake to come here after all. “I…” Clark began, “ok.” Bruce froze, and Clark could almost see the gears in his head grind to a halt. He hadn’t expected it to be that easy. 

“'Ok'?” he questioned. 

Clark nodded. “Yes, I accept your help.” 

Bruce blinked, and turned to leave. He caught himself after a few steps and explained, “Let me get dressed and see what Alfred’s been up to— there’s still the matter of making sure Clark Kent stays dead. Then we’ll head down to the cave.” Clark nodded. Bruce left. 

...

Clark, feeling some sort of nervy energy, decided to clean up. He started by washing the pan, and had just finished with the plates when Bruce’s voice said, right behind him, “You know, we have a dishwasher.” Clark jumped, splattering sudsy water all over the counter. His heart was still hammering as he rinsed his hands and turned to Bruce with a scowl. 

The man had that inscrutable look again, but was holding out a towel. “Thanks,” Clark muttered. Bruce didn’t move away, and Clark suppressed an annoyed huff. Once he was done, Clark set the dishes out to dry and turned to Bruce, who was still watching him. It was creepy. 

“Well?” Clark pressed. Bruce unfolded himself from where he’d been lounging against the counter in a nonchalant stance— not that it fooled Clark, who could see the tension in the other man’s jaw. Bruce walked away, again, not giving him any warning. Clark rolled his eyes, and went to follow Batman. 

... 

The two walked through the office, where Bruce pressed a hidden button in his grandfather clock and a door opened. Bruce stepped into a hidden elevator, followed by Clark, and there was silence as they rode down. It was a space not meant for two large men, so Clark politely tried to ignore the way that Bruce’s heartrate was slightly elevated. But he couldn’t. He wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. Batman, from his observations, did not like to be called out on _feeling_ anything. 

They reached the cave and Bruce headed to a massive wall of computers, where he started typing something. Clark paused at the entrance, looking around in awe. When he’d pictured Batman’s base, it hadn’t even come close to this… Clark spun to look behind the computers, where Bruce stood. His gaze stopped on what looked alarmingly like a memorial to a young boy— the suit entirely too small to be that of a grown person. His stomach dropped, and Clark’s reporter brain supplied, _Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne’s second son, was killed by the Joker. If Bruce is Batman, then…_

Clark felt things falling into perspective, and abruptly he realized that he _understood_ Bruce Wayne’s motivations a little better. “Maybe it's the Gotham City in me. We just have a bad history with freaks dressed like clowns” made a lot more sense if your son had been murdered by one. Bruce didn’t trust unchecked power, as it could lead to chaos. Clark hadn’t exactly been open to questioning, and had caused a lot of damage after fighting Zod. While he still didn’t completely trust him, Batman had saved his mother, and there had been something _sincere_ in Bruce’s voice when he said he’d do his best to help. Clark may not trust him completely now, but he was on his way to doing so. 

Clark realized he’d been staring at that glass case in silence for a long couple of minutes. As if sensing where his gaze was, Bruce stopped typing. The absence of that small noise was deafening. Bruce said, his gaze still focused on the screen in front of him, “No one comes back… some mistakes are permanent, Superman. Jason Todd, the second Robin. Made the mistake of going out alone. Beaten to death by the Joker.” 

Superman flinched, understanding the message underneath: ‘that’s why I was so surprised to see you alive. No one, not even aliens, escapes death.’ After a long, horrible silence, Clark walked decisively to Bruce’s side. He may have died, but it was Bruce who’d lost something. “It’s not your fault,” he said. 

Bruce, keenly aware they were no longer discussing Jason Todd, said, “It is. My kryptonite. My weapons. My fists. My agenda. My anger, and my stupidity at allowing Luther to manipulate me. Your loss.” 

Clark sighed. “No. You may have been manipulated by Luther, but so was I! I was angry too, and not thinking rationally either. In case you don’t remember, it was Luther’s monster that killed me, not you,” he decreed firmly. The Bat stood silent for a moment after that, still facing the computer screen, although it was clear he paid it no attention. 

“No, Clark. You wouldn’t have died if I hadn’t severely weakened you with kryptonite beforehand,” he said, making a move to walk away. Clark held onto his shoulder, intent on making Bruce see the error in his thinking before he would let the other man go. 

“It’s not your fault. I’ve been exposed to kryptonite before! Bruce, I forgive you for our fight. If you remember, I wasn’t the only one who came out worse for wear from it,” he said, recalling the damage that he’d done to the suit, and undoubtedly, the man underneath. 

Bruce snarled, muscles tensing beneath his hand, “That’s irrelevant! I _started_ the fight and I’m human, Clark. Of course, I was going to get smacked around.” He made to break away again but Clark still held firm. “Let. Me. Go.” Bruce growled. 

“No. I need you to accept the fact that your guilt is misplaced, Bruce. I forgive you. I want you to forgive yourself. Please,” Superman said gently. 

The Bat surprised him by throwing off his hand and trying to walk away. When Clark moved to intercept, holding a hand up placatingly, Bruce shoved him aside. Shock made Clark stumble backward, enough to allow Bruce to escape. The billionaire disappeared up the stairs before Superman could run after him. 

... 

Bruce had never liked being cornered, let alone by an undead alien who had, through his otherworldly graciousness, forgiven him for the unforgivable. Hell, he’d only decided to help Clark because he _owed_ him, had never expected anything of the other man. And now, he felt overwhelmed— by a familiar, long-ignored pang in his chest that just wouldn’t go away. _People don’t just come back from the dead,_ Bruce thought, haunted by the laughing, joyous face of Jason Todd. But Superman had, and he had forgiven his almost-murderer too. 

Bruce clenched his hands into fists. He snuck out the back door, not wanting to talk to Alfred and just kept walking. He needed to get away from everything. He needed to stop _feeling_ … He ended up at the original bat cave— the one he’d fallen into as a child. He sat on the ground and began meditating, trying to settle his heartrate into something not resembling panic. 

...

Superman stood in the cave after Bruce had _run_ off. He was shocked— the Batman, the man who all criminals, meta-humans or not, feared— had _run away_. From him. He sighed, heading to the elevator to leave the cave. He needed to talk to Alfred. This whole coming back from the dead thing was a headache. 

… 

Several hours later, Bruce still sat in the grass outside the cave entrance, quietly meditating. It was sunny enough, but Bruce felt cold. He didn’t want to stay here, but did not want to go back yet either. He knew he was being irrational but didn’t know how to stop it. He was angry. Angry at himself, for letting Superman see him get upset, angry too at his own stupidity, angry for hurting Clark, angry at the world for how unfair it was both to supermen and to boy wonders. 

Anger was not very conducive for meditation, unfortunately. Bruce scowled, trying to refocus, but finding it difficult. If he couldn’t force away the anger, focus on feeling nothing, then he knew that other emotions, like hurt, and a deep aching sadness, would bubble to the surface, and if Batman— Bruce— lost control, there was no getting it back. A sudden brightness against his eyelids caused Bruce to sigh, and finally admit defeat. He blinked open his eyes and leaned back against the tree, observing his surroundings. 

He felt a bit calmer, a few minutes later, almost calm enough that he could start planning on how he could mitigate the consequences of his earlier actions. Bruce watched the clouds moving in an unfelt breeze high up and sighed again. _I’ve really done it this time,_ he thought wryly, imagining the lecture from Alfred, and Clark’s reaction too. Suddenly, someone cleared their throat. Bruce suppressed the desire to bolt to his feet as Superman sat down about a foot away from him. 

Bruce chose a nonchalant position, watching out of the corner of his eye. A beam of sunlight broke through and passed over them. Clark lay back, hands behind his head and closed his eyes, soaking in the sun and almost looked better, just for that. _Curious,_ Bruce thought, _I don’t remember reading anything about him gaining energy from the sun._ “Why are you here?” he asked Superman without preamble. Superman raised an eyebrow. 

“Lunch. Alfred sent sandwiches,” he said, holding up the basket in his hand that Bruce somehow hadn’t noticed. Bruce sighed, but accepted a sandwich. Clark continued to keep his distance. They ate in silence. Bruce ate two and a half sandwiches, Clark ate three. Once they were done, they sat, not saying anything. Clark moved slightly forward, to keep in the sun. It made his hair almost an inky blue-black, Bruce observed. 

The silence stretched on, until Bruce shifted minutely, having been in that same position for a few hours. At this, Clark glanced back, but didn’t leave his spot in the sun. “Are you photosynthetic or something?” Bruce blurted, before thinking. Clark blinked, and turned away again to lie back— but Bruce had the distinct sense he was hiding a smile. After the other man didn’t say anything for a while, Bruce tensed again, feeling both self-conscious and afraid that he’d offended the other man. Clark heard the increase in Batman’s heartbeat after he asked the question, and the sound interrupted his thought process— he _was_ going to explain, but it wasn’t like Kryptonian biology came with a textbook, and he himself barely understood how the sun powered him. 

Yes, Bruce’s heart was beating as if he were nervous about how his curiosity would be received... The thought that Batman, _Bruce_ , could still be afraid of him bothered Clark a surprising amount. To test his theory, he moved slightly closer to the billionaire. Sure enough, his pupils dilated a little as he noticed Clark’s less than subtle movements. “Why are you so uneasy around me, Bruce?” Clark blurted, a bit hurt and insulted. Bruce blinked, surprise clear on his features before he schooled them into that infuriating blankness that he was so fond of. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked thoughtful. 

“You’re not logical, Clark. A being who could kill me before I could even raise my hand? For god’s sake, you can defy gravity— you don’t obey physics! You shouldn’t exist! So powerful, yet someone like me can destroy you with a tiny sliver of a pretty green rock. Me? All you have to do is put a bullet through my head, stab me, drop me off a tall enough building, strangle me, or just beat me enough to kill me. But you? You. Don’t. Make. Sense!” Bruce burst out in exasperation, staring angrily at the grass in front of him. 

At this, Clark started laughing, feeling slightly bad about it. Though he may have been offended by the fact that Bruce thought he was a threat in the past, he would like to think he was a little more forgiving now, and understood Batman’s psyche a little better. Also, there was something a bit funny about how Bruce’s main problem was him was that he defied _physics._

“What’s so funny?” Bruce growled, looking hurt. 

Clark stopped laughing and said, “You really don’t think I make sense? And, I hate to tell you, Bruce, but you are no ‘mere mortal.’” 

Bruce sighed, _this is why he annoys me so much. He doesn’t get the big picture._ “Clark, the only reason I’m still alive is because you choose to think of all of us as equals, as worth the time and effort to save, I know _that_ now. I’m only alive still because of years of training and lots of Kevlar. Take away my armor and I’d be dead in the first half hour I was on the streets,” Bruce growled, angry. 

He stood and started walking away. For a moment, Clark debated whether he should follow. _Ok, not scared of me. Angry, very angry,_ Clark corrected in his head. He caught up to Batman and said, “Wait, Bruce! I’m sorry if I made you mad. It’s just that, I didn’t know that that was why you didn’t like me. I thought— and forgive me if this is stupid— that you were afraid…” Bruce stopped and spun halfway around. He brought a hand to his nose and pinched the bridge of it, as if suppressing a headache. 

“Superman— Clark— I was never afraid _of_ you. I was afraid of _what_ you could do. However, the reason I’m not gunning for you now is that I see you’re a good man. I am not. I will _always_ fear what could happen, and that motivates me to stop that possibility. You help people because you hate to see them suffer. That’s the difference between us,” he said, then kept walking. Clark stopped following Bruce, unable to get over the shock of his words. Bruce, Clark was realizing, was a complicated man. 

... 

Eventually, Clark returned to the mansion after catching a few more rays of sun. Alfred, who was busy dusting a bookshelf, said, “Master Bruce is in the _basement_ , Mister Kent. Before you go, may I ask if are you going to be staying another night here, sir?” Clark sighed. Much as he’d like to stay, his Ma was still in the dark about his return, and would tan his hide when she found out he’d been alive and hadn’t told her yet. He needed to get back to Kansas… the only problem was, he wasn’t sure if he had enough ‘juice’ to _get_ there.

“No, but thanks, Alfred. I need to get back to Smallville… my Ma still doesn’t know I’m back, and I want to get out of Bruce’s hair—” Clark said, cutting himself off before this turned into a whole thing. But Alfred surprised him. 

The gentleman turned around and said, after a small, tired smile, “You should know that you are always welcome here, Mister Kent. Even if Master Bruce’s social skills are sometimes lacking, he does not dislike you— he is prickly with everyone.” 

Clark nodded, feeling a lump form in his throat. _Interesting. He’d have to keep that in mind, because ‘prickly’ was certainly one way to describe Bruce’s behavior…_ “I’ll try to keep that in mind, Alfred. Thank you,” he said. The butler nodded and turned back to his dusting. 

Clark went down to the cave and saw Bruce typing away at the computer like nothing had happened. He came up behind Bruce, who grunted in acknowledgment of his arrival. _Well, there would be no sneaking up on the Bat again,_ Clark thought, amused. When he didn’t leave, Bruce uttered a soft sigh and spun around. “Yes?” he asked. 

“I was going to take off, head back to Smallville...” Clark said, grimacing at the way it sounded like a _question_. 

Bruce frowned a moment but said, “Fine.” 

Clark smiled. “Thank you for everything, really. It means a lot,” he said sincerely. 

Bruce said nothing, so Clark took that as his cue to leave. But before he went more than a foot, Clark hear the small squeak of Bruce’s chair. He paused and saw that Bruce was observing him closely. Bruce surprised him by asking gruffly, almost hesitantly, “Are you sure you’re up for the flight… I could take the plane, drop you off. Or you could stay here.” 

Clark sighed. He wanted to say no, wanted to feel the cool night air beneath his feet, in his hair, wanted to see the star-lit sky and hear the soft sound of wheat being rustled by the wind. But… his gut feeling told him it would be a bad idea to try to fly from Gotham all the way to Kansas right now. He was just starting to get better, why push it? So, awkwardly shuffling, Clark mumbled, “Yes… that would probably be for the best right now. I— I hate to impose on you though. I could stay here one more night instead, if that’d be better?” Bruce surprised him yet again by snorting derisively. 

“Clark. I’m not going to be responsible for your mother’s wrath if she finds out you were hiding out _here_ when she could have been taking care of you. Get in the plane, we’re going to Kansas,” Bruce said, standing. Clark blinked a moment. As Bruce walked forward to the plane, Clark caught the smirk on his face out of the corner of his eye. Shaking his head, Clark followed. _Honestly, he was surprised Bruce could surprise him anymore, at this point._ But then again, the man was Batman. 

… 

The flight to Smallville was quiet. Too quiet, for Clark’s liking. Bruce sat at the controls the whole time, even though Clark was pretty sure the plane had auto-pilot. Clark thought it might be because it gave Bruce an excuse not to talk to him. He frowned at the thought, and began fidgeting again. He was nervous. Martha Kent was a strong woman, there was no arguing that. But even for a woman who’d raised an alien baby, there were _limits_. Limits like accepting that her son had died and was now… back. Clark was worried. And when Clark worried, he fidgeted. Bruce’s silence wasn’t helping anything either; it made Clark feel like he was back in grade school again and was being punished for sassing the teacher. 

Finally, Bruce sighed, pressed a button, and then turned to Clark. “What,” he said. Clark’s eyes narrowed. 

“You do have auto-pilot!” he accused. Bruce grumbled and rolled his eyes. 

“Yes. I do. Now, what’s bothering you?” he asked. Clark opened his mouth, closed it, and twiddled his thumbs some more. Bruce grabbed his hands, and the warm, rough contact of his flesh shocked Clark enough to make him forget his worries a moment. He looked at Bruce, who gave him a pointed look in response. Clark sighed, and Bruce removed his hand, as if sensing Clark was finally ready to talk. 

“I’m… nervous about how she’s going to react,” he admitted. Bruce nodded, not needing clarification on who ‘she’ was. 

“Understandable,” he said. 

Clark looked at him, waiting for more. There was none. The silence stretched out. Finally, Clark asked, “Aren’t you going to say something else? I don’t know… reassure me, or offer advice?” Bruce gave him a _look_ and Clark snorted. Right, who was he kidding? Bruce was not the one to ask for emotional advice. 

But Bruce replied, “I’d be nervous too. But, that’s not a _bad_ thing, and I didn’t mean it to be. There’s really nothing else to say. Because in the end, Clark, she’s your mother. Even if you really were a zombie, I’m sure she’d still love you.” There was a hardness to Bruce’s voice, an icy certainty to those words— a mother’s love is permanent— and Clark had to repress a shiver at the reminder that for Bruce, his image of his mother _had_ been forever preserved— she was perfect, by nature of her petrification by _blood_. They were silent for the rest of the flight. 

...

They landed in Kansas at 9 p.m. Both Clark and Bruce acknowledged that it’d be best if Bruce handled introducing the fact that Clark was alive; Martha was likely to go into shock or worse if Clark showed up on her doorstep. Bruce parked the plane behind the barn, and hopped out, eyes dark and serious. “I’ll handle it, Clark. Make sure you don’t come out until after I’ve told her,” he said. Clark nodded, mouth dry. All there was to do now was to wait and watch and listen. 

… 

Bruce strode towards the front porch in the dim yellow light that came from the lonely farmhouse. He rang the bell, the buzzing sounding oddly foreboding at this time of night. He heard someone— Martha— curse softly, “This better be a damn emergency, at this time of night,” before she had opened the door, hair half-undone from a braid. Her eyes widened slightly upon seeing Bruce, but then she schooled her face into a neutral expression; _like Clark_ , Bruce thought distractedly. She did not invite him in. 

“Mr. Wayne,” she said, a slight note of hesitation in her voice, “I haven’t seen you since the funeral. What can I do for you?” 

He cleared his throat, feeling oddly apprehensive. “Mrs. Kent, I’m sorry about the late hour. I’m here about your son,” he said. At this, her eyes did narrow. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware, my son is _dead_ , Mr. Wayne,” she responded, still polite, though her tone a bit colder. Bruce paused. He needed to try this again. He took a breath. 

“Mrs. Kent, I’m here about your son. Superman,” he said. At this, she let out one small hiss of breath. 

Then she said, with practiced, cool denial, “I’m sure I don’t know what—” 

“—He’s alive,” Bruce explained simply. 

Martha gasped. There was a blur, and a rush of wind, and then Clark was there, walking slowly up the steps past Bruce. Martha gasped again, eyes wide, before she threw her arms open and exclaimed, “Oh! Clark, my boy! You’re alive. Oh—” her sentiment was cut off by the sobs. Bruce turned away, politely ignoring her tears. Clark himself looked like he was trying not to cry. Yes, it was time for Bruce to leave. 

He began edging away from the scene, a pang of… something he chose not to examine twisting in his gut. He’d just reached the end of the light when Martha looked up from her hug, tears staining her cheeks, and said, “Bruce Wayne, you get your ass over here! I don’t care if you’re doing this for the money, or the power— god knows you don’t need either— but you’ve just brought my son back to me.” She broke away from Clark and reached out for a hug. Bruce froze. Everything seemed to be moving in slow-motion and his _brain_ didn’t seem to be working. He was enveloped in a soft, warm hug before he could object, and he noted absently that Martha smelled like pie and sunshine and dirt. He blinked. It was the first time in more than twenty years that he’d been hugged by a mother. 

“Ma,” Clark broke in, tone conciliatory and explaining, “Bruce is—” 

“—I’m Batman,” Bruce interrupted. 

Martha laughed, and it rumbled through Bruce too, because she was still hugging him. “Oh, well, that’s a relief. I was worried what we were gonna have to do to keep Clark’s secret,” she said, finally breaking away. Bruce was still frozen. It took a look from Clark to pull him from his spot, and he realized that Martha had already retired inside and he was expected to follow. 

…

“Mrs. Kent, I should really go, leave you two alone,” Bruce said, thinking of all the things he had to do on patrol that night. Martha waved him off, shutting the door behind Clark. 

“Nonsense! I think I probably have some of that left-over meatloaf and mashed potatoes from the potluck yesterday, if you boys are hungry,” she said, heading into the kitchen. Bruce stood there, and probably looked like a fish out of water doing so. Clark passed him, giving him an odd look— between a smile and a smirk. Bruce shook his head and followed. 

Sure enough, Martha had enough meatloaf, potatoes, and green beans for both Bruce and Clark. While they ate, she made herself a cup of tea, and joined them at the table, sitting right next to Clark. There was silence, permeated by sniffling, as Martha had to dab at her eyes several times, after glancing at Clark, with a wide smile on her face. Clark smiled back, and his eyes glittered a bit more than usual. Bruce tried to ignore his desire to hunch down and be less noticeable, but by the way Clark eyed him, he’d probably lost a few inches in height at least. 

The meal was finished, and Martha’s tea had been drunk, so Bruce really had no excuse to stay, other than helping with the dishes. He washed, Clark dried. Then, he wiped his hands on the kitchen towel and slowly backed towards the door. “Mrs. Kent, thank you for the hospitality. But, I need to get back to Gotham, and I don't want to take any more time away from you and your son,” he said firmly. 

Martha stared at him, and said, equally as firm, “Stay, please. It must be, what, a three-hour flight from here to Gotham at least. Spend the night. I’m sure we have an air mattress around here somewhere, and if not, the couch is plenty comfortable. Or you could take Clark’s old bed, if you’d prefer.” After a moment, Bruce could not see a way to refuse her offer without sounding at best blunt, at worst rude. He did not want to upset Superman’s mother. 

Sighing, he said, “I’ll get my overnight bag. The couch will be fine.” 

Bruce went out to the plane, refusing Clark’s offer of a flashlight, and dug around for his emergency bag; it included a couple changes of clothes, a toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and $500 in cash. Thankfully, he’d brought his cell phone too. He called Alfred and quietly explained the situation before heading back into the house. Martha was gone, but there was a quilt and pillows on the couch, along with a towel. Clark was waiting for him, seated in the armchair across from the couch. Stiffly, he said, “Thanks for doing this. You didn’t have to.” Bruce shrugged, dropping his bag on the floor. 

“I wasn’t going to be rude to your mother,” he said. Clark paused, not sure what to say to that. 

“Alright. Well, good night then,” he said, heading for the stairs. Bruce waited for the house to go quiet before he collected his towel and bag and went to find the bathroom. 

… 

The next morning, Bruce woke early, and changed. Unfortunately, he didn't have a hair brush and so accepted the fact that his hair was going to be extremely messy. Clark walked downstairs soon after and helped him put away the bedding from the previous night. Half an hour later, Martha was up and cooking breakfast. Bruce sat at the table, looking caffeine-deprived and slightly more rumpled than usual while he waited for something to need to be done. Clark was amused by his wavy, puffed-up hair. The two men helped Martha bring out all the breakfast items before they sat down to eat. 

Over the biscuits, gravy, bacon, eggs, and coffee, Martha suddenly asked, “How do you boys know each other? I didn’t think there were any others like Clark. But apparently I was wrong.” Bruce stiffened and Clark nearly choked on his coffee. 

“We,” Bruce began, the sentence dying on his tongue. _How did one politely put it that they’d met when Bruce had decided to murder her son?_

Clark set his coffee down, eyes lowered. “We tried to kill each other, Ma,” he said plainly. Martha did not gasp, did not glare holes in Bruce, did not look horrified. 

Instead she frowned firmly, and said, “What did I tell you about playing nice! You’re too aggressive, Clark.” He looked shamed. Bruce’s mouth must have been hanging open for a few seconds, but Martha politely ignored it. 

“But I—” Bruce found himself saying 

“—hush. I’m sure you were behaving badly too, but only one of you two is a superpowered alien,” Martha said. And that was that. Bruce thought it was quite possible that his mind would never recover from the shock. He looked up and saw Clark making a ‘well, what can you do?’ face at him. Bruce sipped his coffee, still internally reeling. 

...

An hour later, Bruce found himself out in the barn, helping Clark with the tractor; even in the middle of nowhere, Kansas, the plane would be noticed. Clark was x-raying the tractor to try and see where the leaks were. Bruce was bent over the engine, checking out the pipes and bolts. “How are you feeling?” he asked, seemingly absent-mindedly. Clark paused. He didn’t think Bruce could possibly mean emotion-wise, so he answered with info on his powers. 

“Better… I’m completely healed, physically speaking. Vision’s mostly back, but I don’t think I can fly quite yet, or have my strength back, but I’m getting there,” he said, squinting at what appeared to be a small leak coming from one of the hoses. Bruce seemed to see what he was looking at, because he moved aside, lifting some of the other hoses he’d disconnected out of the way. 

He hummed, not minding the grease, and replied, “Good. Let me know when you’re ‘back;’ Diana and I have a… project. We’re going to try to find the other metas from Luther’s files.” Clark was surprised by this. It didn’t seem like something Batman, or Bruce, would be involved with. 

Bruce must have sensed this, because he clarified, “After you… died, Luther said some things. Said he’d called _someone_ and that bad things were on the way. It sounded crazy, but I had… a feeling that it wasn’t. We’ve been trying to prepare— didn’t think we’d have you here to help us.” Clark wasn’t sure what to say, so he settled for a nod. 

“Next time you’re meeting with Diana, let me know. I wasn’t really formally introduced, and I’d like to help,” Clark said. Bruce nodded, absorbed with putting the engine back together. 

… 

Later that night, as soon as it was dark, Martha waved goodbye, sending Bruce off with a pie. Bruce awkwardly ducked out of a hug and headed for the back of the barn; the plane had been moved inside after it was decided that Bruce was staying the night. Clark followed. Bruce stood in front of the plane's door, pie in hand. Both men were silent for a moment, not sure what to say. Finally, Bruce said, deadpan, “Next time you decide to come to Gotham, give me a little more warning. Even the Batman isn’t prepared for undead aliens, Superman.” 

Clark chuckled at the surprisingly funny— if dry and self-deprecating— joke. _Maybe Bruce really did like him._ “Sure thing, Bruce. If things change, I’ll let you know. See you later,” Clark said. Bruce nodded, and shut the plane’s doors. Clark couldn’t help but wave at the night sky as Bruce took off. 

...

A month later, he received a phone call while he was doing chores at the farm. “Clark, honey? You have a call from Bruce. Should I tell him to call back?” asked his mother. Clark paused, three haybales in each hand. 

“No! Keep him on the phone until I put these up in the barn, Ma. Thanks!” Clark said, flying the bales up and quickly heading to the house. He could only imagine the disaster that was Batman having a solo conversation with his mother. To his surprise, though, Ma was laughing at something Bruce had said. And Bruce, to Clark’s amazement, didn’t sound like his usually gruff self. 

“Oh, Clark’s just come into the house, Bruce. I’ll hand the phone over,” Ma said. 

Clark picked up the phone, “Hello?” 

“Hello, Clark. Diana is here,” Bruce said. 

“How’d you manage to get my number?” asked Clark curiously. 

“I hacked the phone records,” Bruce said nonchalantly. Clark rolled his eyes, _of course, Batman would hack the phone records instead of simply asking for his number._

“All right then… I’ll be there in about 45 minutes. Bye,” Clark said. Bruce said nothing, simply disconnected. Clark sighed again. _Prickliness is right,_ he thought. 

“What did Bruce want, dear?” asked Ma. 

“He told me that a… mutual acquaintance of ours is meeting with him and he wanted to know if I wanted to come to the meeting. I’ll be back some time later,” Clark said. 

“Say hello for me. Tell him I’d like to see him again, and meet this other friend of yours,” Ma said. Clark gulped, that would go well. 

“Sure, Ma,” he said as he took off. 

… 

Forty minutes later, Clark was in Gotham. He headed to the manor and entered the bat cave. There, sitting on the edge of Bruce’s desk, was Diana. She saw him and flew over, practically crushing him in a hug. “Clark! It is so good to see you doing well. How is your mother?” Diana asked. Clark smiled. 

“She’s great, Diana. She wanted me to tell you two that she wants to meet you. How are you?” Clark asked. 

“I am doing well, and I would be honored to meet your mother. I am sure she is an interesting woman,” Diana said. Clark turned to Bruce who, to Clark’s dismay, had a brace on his ankle. Clark raised an eyebrow. Bruce glowered back. “He was fighting Harley Quinn and she got a lucky hit in with that mallet of hers,” Diana explained, adding, “… and I am sure Bruce would be delighted to see your mother again too.” 

Bruce frowned and said, “Clark, I’m not sure this… dinner is the best idea. I’m not exactly the best company and my stories aren’t exactly ones you want to hear at the dinner table.” 

Clark frowned slightly and Diana elbowed Bruce who hissed. “Diana!” he exclaimed, wincing. 

Clark heard his heartrate accelerate a little and x-rayed Bruce. “You know you have three cracked ribs, right?” he asked. 

Diana snarled and smacked Bruce again, but gently. “So, you have a broken ankle and three cracked ribs, yet you do not let me patrol with you?” she asked angrily. Bruce stood and glared at them both. 

“Do not x-ray me, Superman,” he hissed, then turned to Diana, “I do not allow meta-humans in Gotham, Diana. The Bat works alone. As far as my injuries, those are my business and mine alone— not everyone is invincible, so some of us must actually know how to deal with being injured!” He made to walk away but Diana blocked his way. 

“Move, Diana,” he hissed. 

“No,” she said. 

Sighing, Clark flew over and placed a hand on both of their shoulders. “Let’s all just calm down. Now, why don’t you two tell me what this meeting is about?” he requested. 

Bruce took a deep breath and muttered, still glaring venomously at Diana, “We think we’ve found a speedster in Central city.” He removed Clark’s hand from his shoulder and walked to the computer, where he started typing with significantly more force than needed. _He doesn’t like discussing power differences,_ Clark noted. He’d try to remember that in the future. Diana returned to Bruce’s side, although she stood a little farther away this time. 

… 

An hour later, Alfred came downstairs with lunch for them all. “Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, still engrossed with the computer. Alfred cleared his throat and Bruce sighed. “I’ll be right back,” he said, giving Alfred a look. It did not phase the butler whatsoever. 

The two departed somewhere, still in the cave. Clark tried not to listen in, but with the silence in the cave, it proved impossible. “Master Bruce, I must insist you take your pain medication to assist with your recovery,” said Alfred. 

“Not while I’m working,” Bruce said. 

Now, Clark knew already that most people would have heard that as a proclamation and would have accepted the Bat’s word. But not Alfred Pennyworth, who was far too used to the Bat’s bad behavior to let it bother him. “So, help me sir, I will call Master Dick home and we will tie you down until you see sense!” Alfred threatened. 

Bruce growled, but said, “I’ll take a half dosage. Nothing more.” 

“Very well sir, although it is rather unfortunate for you that masochism went out of style when common sense came into it, seeing as you are so fond of it,” Alfred quipped. _Well,_ Clark thought impressed. Diana quirked an eyebrow at him. Bruce returned to them, a scowl on his face. 

“Right. Like I was saying, we need to find a way to catch this speedster and talk to him. It’s probably best if you two did the talking,” he suggested. 

“It’s your team,” Diana said. Bruce shot her a warning look. Diana ignored him and turned to Clark. “What do you think?” she asked. 

“I think you should be there too, Bruce,” Clark said. Bruce said nothing at first, looking far away. 

Then, he spun in his chair and said, “I want you to see something, Superman.” Diana rolled her eyes at him. Bruce pulled up a video showing a red blur on the screen. Clark watched as Bruce pressed play. The red blur, it turned out was a young man who moved very, very fast. 

“Do you think,” Bruce said after the video was over, “that that man would want to join a team with a mortal in a bat suit? No. He needs to see that there are others like him who are interested first. You can get him to join. I will get him to stay.” Clark felt uncomfortable and for once, Diana had nothing to say. Bruce smirked a little. 

After that, they discussed other things. A while later, Clark was a bit surprised to hear a subtle lowering in Batman’s heartrate— he was more relaxed. Suddenly, Clark began noticing other things too— the way Bruce’s posture was slightly less stiff, the way his answers were less gruff and how he spoke more, and finally, the barely noticeable way he just seemed to be not _quite_ there. _Must be the pain meds,_ Clark concluded. Diana seemed to notice it as well. She changed the subject from whatever it had been— Clark hadn’t been paying attention— and asked Clark, “When would your mother like to meet me?” Clark snapped back to attention. 

“Uh, she didn’t say. I’ll ask her when I get home and then I’ll let you know,” he replied. 

“Just me? But Bruce is going too, aren’t you Bruce?” Diana asked sweetly. 

Bruce sighed and protested, weaker than he had earlier, “No.” 

“Come, Batman! It would be rude not to accept her invitation. Besides, I am sure there must be at least two or three stories of yours that aren’t gruesome. Just come with us,” Diana persuaded. Bruce paused, thinking. 

“If Clark tells her I’m busy, then she won’t be offended. I do have a company to run, Diana. Also, even my non ‘gruesome’ stories are not pleasant. Not to mention, how would I even get to Kansas?” Bruce asked. 

Diana smiled again, all patience. “You have a plane, Bruce. I also never said that your stories had to be work related. I’m sure Mrs. Kent would love to hear about the life of a billionaire CEO,” she said. Bruce, for once, seemed stumped. 

But he still countered weakly, “I can’t fly the Bat plane, Diana— it’d blow my cover; there is no logical excuse for Bruce Wayne to fly to middle-of-no-where, Kansas. Also, even my day-time activities aren’t that great for the table.” Diana laughed, while Clark objected to his home being insulted. 

“I happen to know that a certain billionaire went sky diving for charity a few weeks ago, Bruce. Surely Mrs. Kent would like to hear about that. Also, if you’re concerned about your identity being blown, I can always pick you up in the invisible jet,” she said. 

Bruce blinked and said, “You have a jet?” Diana smiled, sharing a glance with Clark. Game over. 

“Yes, how about I pick you up at three, so we can make it to Kansas by six?” she suggested. Bruce blinked, looking quite tired and lost for words at that moment. 

“I never said I was going, Diana,” he said weakly. 

“Ok, three it is, Bruce,” she replied cheerfully. Bruce grumbled but didn’t object again. Clark decided that meant Bruce had probably had enough— and that the pain meds were affecting him so there wouldn’t be much use in sticking around longer. 

He stood, saying, “I’ll ask Ma what day she wants you two to come over and will let you know.” 

Diana also took the hint and said, “Until next time then. Oh, and Bruce? Get some sleep.” She departed quickly, before Bruce had the chance to retaliate. 

Clark followed her, but heard Bruce mutter to himself, “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Alfred.” Clark barely stopped himself from laughing. 

...

Once back in Kansas, Clark did ask Ma when she wanted his ‘super friends’ to come for dinner. “Oh, let’s see now. I think Friday in two weeks will work nicely. Let your friends know, would you Clark?” she said. 

“Sure Ma,” he said. 

Clark pulled out his cell phone on the Sunday before dinner and called up Bruce first, as he still might try and wiggle out of it and thus might take longer to talk to. 

“Bruce Wayne,” he answered. 

“Hey, Bruce. I just wanted to let you know that dinner is this Friday at six. I also wanted to remind you that Diana was going to pick you up,” Clark said. 

“Is there anything else you need?” Bruce asked curtly. _So, he’s coming to dinner, but isn’t happy about it_ , Clark thought. 

“No,” he said. 

“Fine,” Bruce said, hanging up. _He could at least have said goodbye_ , Clark thought, with a sigh. Bruce really could be annoying sometimes. Then he called Diana, which was much more pleasant and took longer than Bruce’s call, as they began a casual conversation. 

… 

The Friday arrived and Clark paced outside, eagerly. Despite his worry, he was happy to show Batman and Wonder Woman his home. “You know they won’t get here any faster no matter how much you pace, dear,” Martha Kent said from where she was sweeping the porch. Clark smiled. 

“I know, Ma. I know. Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. 

“How about you set the table?” she asked. Clark sped inside to do just that. At 5:45, Bruce called. 

“We’re about five miles from Smallville. Where can we park?” he asked. 

“I’ll fly up and meet you. Tell Diana to follow me,” Clark said. 

“Ok,” Bruce said, hanging up. 

Clark went out to the field and took off. He scanned the skies for an aircraft and spotted the invisible jet. He waved and flew slowly to the Kent barn. Diana landed the jet and then they emerged. Bruce had a navy-blue polo sweater and jeans and, to Clark’s dismay, a black eye. Diana wore a loose blouse and a dark blue pair of jeans. 

“Welcome to the Kent farm,” Clark said. 

Diana smiled and said, “So, this is the home of the famous Superman. Seems nice.” 

Bruce asked, “Corn or wheat, Clark?” 

“Corn. All the big farms grow wheat around here, so we knew we couldn’t be competitive if we grew it too,” he replied, a bit surprised that Bruce knew anything about ‘rural life.’ Clark waited for Bruce to ask another question, or say anything else, but he didn’t. So, Clark took them to the house, where Ma was waiting in the kitchen, finishing up with plating the last dish. 

When she saw that company had arrived, she washed her hands and bustled out to the main room. “Oh, hello. You must Diana. I’m Martha— and although we’ve met once before, Bruce, I fear it wasn’t much of an introduction,” she said, smiling kindly. Bruce froze for a moment, remembering the last time they had met— when he’d brought Clark back to her. 

He said a bit stiffly, “No, I suppose not Mrs. Kent.” 

Martha replied, “Please, dear, call me Martha. Any friend of Clark’s is welcome here.” 

She then turned to Diana while Bruce turned stone-faced, clearly trying to process being called ‘dear’ and ‘friend of Clark’s’ in the same sentence. “Now, I never actually met you before, Diana. You’re from— Clark said Themosycera, I believe?” Diana smiled, though it was a bit tight around her eyes. 

“Yes, Martha— and it’s is very nice of you to have us,” she said. 

Martha smiled and replied, “It’s no trouble, dear. I always like meeting friends of Clark.” 

With the introductions made, they all went to the table and began eating. Once they were mostly done, the conversation picked up again. “Please, tell me more about yourselves, I’m afraid there isn’t much interesting about me,” Martha said. Clark was a little apprehensive, but he had made sure to tell his mother not to ask about Bruce’s parents for any reason. 

“I doubt that, Martha. After all, you adopted Clark,” Bruce said. 

“That was years ago, and really, he was just a regular boy— who happened to be able to fly, among other things. Please, Bruce, why don’t you start?” Martha said. 

Bruce swallowed, and said, “As you know, I’m from Gotham; born and raised. I left when I was nineteen to learn the skills I need to be Batman. Once I came back to the United States, I took control of Wayne Tech,” he said. 

“That’s exciting! Do you have children, Bruce?” Martha asked. 

“Yes. I adopted Dick when he was nine, after his parents were killed. After he grew up, I adopted Jason… But he passed away only a few years later,” Bruce said tonelessly. Clark winced a little— _great, a depressed Bruce_. Talking about his son’s death would really make him want to come back here. 

“I’m sorry, I remember how hard it was when Jonathan died,” Ma said. Bruce nodded. After a moment of silence, Martha had clearly decided to let Bruce alone, as she asked, “Are you really strong enough to take on Clark, Diana? I’m sure you two would never fight, but it must be interesting to be that powerful.” Diana smiled and even Bruce looked— on the outside, at least— a little less solemn. “We’ve never actually battled, but I have heard the same,” she said. 

“I think, if you had the lasso, you might be able to win,” Bruce said, smirking. Diana arched an eyebrow and even Clark was surprised. 

“Why do you say so?” he asked, genuinely curious— even if he disagreed, no offense to Diana, he was literally a superpowered alien. 

“The lasso means she does not have to be as close to her opponents, something that is a disadvantage to you because you rely on brute strength. She also is formally trained in battle, which, seeing as she is much closer in strength to you than I am, would be quite an advantage. If she could keep from getting hit too much and could tire you out, her better technique would give her the win,” Bruce explained. It actually made a lot of sense, after he said it. Clark and Diana glanced at each other, amused. 

“Well, Diana, thank goodness you are a pleasant person,” Clark joked. 

“Agreed,” Diana chortled. After that, the conversation moved to much more mundane topics, such as how the farm was run. 

Then Bruce made a witty comment that got everyone laughing, and Clark thought, _I could get used to this_.

**Author's Note:**

> 5/31/19: I tweaked the ending, a little. Still not entirely happy with it, so I might come back and change it later.


End file.
